


The Practice of Barrayaran Sex

by Philomytha



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Bisexual Character, Explicit Consent, F/M, Missing Scene, Wedding, Wedding Night, cross-cultural relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aral and Cordelia's wedding. And wedding night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Practice of Barrayaran Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the notes about their wedding provided by LMB on the mailing list, but since it's not official book canon I've rearranged the details to suit myself. With many thanks to Avantika for her usual insightful and thorough beta-reading.

Cordelia rested her head on Aral's shoulder and closed her eyes. She was here. It was enough. She sat motionless until she heard Aral's breathing slow. He gave a sudden snore that made her smile a little, because that proved this was real. She'd dreamed of this for weeks, and now she had it. She let herself doze a little in turn, weeks of tension and fear finally beginning to drain away. She hadn't slept much last night, trying to find her bearings on this alien planet in her small hotel room where the very air smelled strange. But now, if she pressed her head close she could hear Aral's heart beating.

The sun sank towards evening--a strangely cool, pleasant sun, not the dangerous blaze of the Betan sun--and Cordelia drifted in and out of sleep, a more peaceful rest than she'd had in months. Years. But finally stiffness in her neck, a full bladder and a desire for something to eat drove her to stand up. Aral startled awake, blinking blearily at her, one hand reaching out. "Cordelia?"

"Still here," she said. "But do you think we could go down to the house? It's lovely up here, but I need the bathroom."

Aral's face cracked a smile, evidently as reassured by this touch of reality as she had been by his snoring. "If you like. I warn you, my father will descend in force."

"He seemed nice. I'll be happy to meet him properly," Cordelia said, and pulled Aral to his feet. He was still fairly drunk, she could tell, but steady enough to walk with an arm wrapped around her. She suspected the alcohol would be catching up with him soon. As they made their way down the path, Cordelia snuggled close to him, looking down at the house in the valley, and the other buildings around it, the green-brown fields fenced in on the hillside. Animals were moving in them, and as one turned she identified it as a horse, _equus ferus caballus_. She'd never seen one before, but there were dozens down there.

"Are those horses _yours_?" she asked suddenly.

Aral followed her gesture. "Well, they're Father's, really. He breeds them. He's trying to get a perfect polo pony. Don't ask him too much about them unless you want an hour's lecture on the subject, though. He's a little obsessive about it."

Cordelia gazed at the animals curiously, wondering what a polo pony was, then jumped as a flock of birds passed by overhead, all squawking at once like a massive crowd. She flinched from the noise, and Aral tightened his arm around her. There were animals _everywhere_ , she realised--those white blobs on the opposite hillside were moving too and something rustled in the bushes as they passed.

They continued down the hill, past the graveyard, now deserted, and Aral led the way over a crunching gravel drive to the house. At the door, the Count met them.

"Ah, there you are," he said, looking at them both with carefully concealed curiosity. "Supper will be ready shortly, if you'd like some."

"I'm famished," Cordelia said, and meant it. She hadn't felt properly hungry for far too long. But the anxiety that had been gnawing in her stomach had finally gone, and she wanted to eat again.

"I'm sorry--I should have asked..." Aral said, but Cordelia squeezed his hand.

"I was perfectly happy," she murmured to him. "But supper would be very nice now."

"Come in, come in," the Count said to her, bowing.

Processing this, Cordelia said quietly to Aral as the Count went on ahead, "Your father lives here with you?"

"Well, not exactly. We have this house, and the house in the capital, and one in Hassadar, so we're not always in the same place. Though I hadn't really been home for years, before I resigned--I always lived on my ship."

"Oh." It wasn't as though there was a shortage of space, Cordelia thought, staring around the enormous rooms Aral led her through, though he seemed not to notice them at all. She had expected to be with Aral here. She hadn't thought about relatives. Though it stood to reason that Aral would have them. "Does anyone else live here as well?" There seemed room enough for dozens of people.

"Just Father. Well, and some of the servants live in, of course, but that's different."

Servants. Of course, labour was so cheap here, the wealthy had human servants to look after them. Cordelia looked around the rooms again and wondered how many people were employed here and how it all worked. It would certainly be a change from a two-bedroom apartment on Beta.

Aral led her into a vast sitting-room and collapsed onto a sofa. Cordelia sat down beside him. The Count followed them and sat opposite. "Can I get you a drink?" he said, looking rather pointedly at Cordelia rather than Aral.

"Just water, for now, please," Cordelia said. "Aral--"

"Oh, yes. Through on the left." He pointed vaguely, and Cordelia made her way out and found the indicated washroom.

Returning a few minutes later, she found a middle-aged man in the same brown uniform Bothari had been wearing, placing drinks on the table. Cordelia smiled at him and took her glass.

"The lightflyer at the front of the house," the Count said. "Is that yours? If you give Evans here the keys he'll put it in the garage for you."

"Oh," Cordelia said, remembering, "no, it's rented. I have to return it by the end of the week." She wasn't sure when the end of the week was now, though she had checked the Barrayaran calendar in the shuttleport. "But yes, it should probably go in a garage," she went on, rummaging in her skirt pocket for the keys. "All my things are in there." She passed the keys to Evans.

"That's fine, ma'am," said Evans, bowed generally to them and went out.

It was like being on her ship, she thought, with people to perform every task, only with a strange added status that didn't exist amongst a Survey crew.

"Evans or one of the other men will take it back to the rental agency for you if you like, later on," Aral said, sipping water. "Though we might want to hang on to it for a little while. My flyer is being repaired right now."

Cordelia nodded, and there was a slightly awkward silence. To break it, she said, "I saw a ruined castle as I was flying in. It was very picturesque. Do you know the story of what happened to it?"

Aral and his father looked at each other and the Count gave a small laugh. "That was Vorkosigan Surleau, once," he said. "It was one of our greater fortifications, during the Time of Isolation."

The history of the castle and its ancestral Vorkosigan inhabitants--towards whom the Count seemed to feel a close personal connection, far closer than Cordelia felt towards her great-great-grandparents--kept the Count talking smoothly until Evans returned to clear his throat politely and announce that dinner was served.

They went through to a large dining room and took seats at one end of a table that Cordelia thought could seat at least sixteen, the Count at the head, Aral and Cordelia on his left and right hands.

"Your little spy was around somewhere," the Count said as they were served a cold soup, bright red and unfamiliar to her. "Did you want to talk to him?"

"If he's carrying the Emperor's messages again, no," Aral replied, and there was a sudden tension in his voice that made Cordelia look up from the mysterious--but tasty--soup in concern.

"I don't believe so. Quite another matter," the Count said dryly, looking at Cordelia.

"Ah," Aral said. "I see."

Cordelia couldn't see anything in this opaque conversation, and she gave Aral a quizzical look.

"Your spy?" she said.

"Illyan. You remember him? Commander Illyan, now--Negri promoted him for putting up with me for so long."

"Of course," Cordelia said. "Is he still watching you? I'd have thought that--" she cut herself off, not sure how much she could refer to in the presence of the Count.

"Not me, this time," Aral said. "You."

"Me?" Cordelia stiffened. "Why..." She thought she was done with security and spies, now. Discovering that they were following her here too was deeply unnerving.

"To make sure you got here safely, I expect," Aral said. "There aren't many Betans on-planet after the war."

"I suppose not." Cordelia hadn't thought of it at all before, seeing Barrayar solely as her refuge. "I didn't have any trouble anywhere, though. Everyone was very polite." She'd purchased suitable identity papers from a Jackson's Whole agent on the Escobaran space station where Mayhew had left her, and they'd got her through all the intervening steps till she reached the border of the Barrayaran Empire. She'd been braced for problems there, since Barrayaran security was very tight after the war, but to her surprise she'd been let through without a murmur and issued with a permit to stay on-planet indefinitely.

Aral opened his mouth to say something, then obviously changed it to, "That's good," He looked back at his father. "If Simon's around, I'd be glad to say hello."

They were served two more courses: some kind of savoury pie and a load of vegetables that she struggled to identify, cooked with unfamiliar spices and flavourings, and then a sweetened fruit-based dish that she liked, and conversation lagged as they ate. Cordelia had thousands of things she wanted to say to Aral, but the presence of his father made her a little uncomfortable. Though he seemed a kindly man, if stern.

After the dessert, they left the table and retired to yet another room, this one a little smaller, but very elegant, with a large window overlooking the lake, where they were served coffee and small complex pastries made with nuts and sweet syrup.

"Ma Thornton is showing off," the Count observed as he bit into one.

Aral gave a faint laugh. "I expect she'll be around to get a glimpse of you, Cordelia. She used to be my nanny once, and she still thinks I'm six years old sometimes."

Cordelia smiled. "I'd like to meet her," she said. The Count hadn't done the usual parental thing of sharing stories from his son's youth, and she'd been hoping to hear some. Then again, from what she already knew, a lot of the stories from Aral's youth were bloody and excruciating. But there must have been some moments when he'd done the Barrayaran equivalent of pouring spaghetti on his head.

Instead, the Count started talking about his plans for his horses, full of technical jargon she didn't follow. Her attention wandered to the panorama through the window, the moon rising over the lake, and was so distracted by this view--all that _water_ , fresh water, just open to the atmosphere, how much would be lost through evaporation in a single day?--that she didn't notice that Aral had fallen silent. When she did at last pay attention to the room, she saw that Aral had turned extremely pale and sweat was breaking out on his forehead. As she opened her mouth, he jerked abruptly to his feet, quite green, mumbled, "Excuse me, Father, Cordelia," and fled the room. The Count gave an unsurprised snort.

Cordelia hesitated, then stood up to go after him, making a vague apologetic gesture to the Count as she went.

She found Aral hunched over in the bathroom, throwing up. Cordelia padded in after him and leaned against the wall. Aral blinked out of his misery long enough to say, "Sure you want to stay?"

"This is what I was doing when you first saw me," Cordelia pointed out. "It seems only fair."

Aral barked a laugh, then groaned and turned away. She rubbed his back gently and waited. Finally he sat back, and Cordelia offered him a small, crooked smile.

"So," she said, "will you marry me?"

Aral blinked, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and returned her smile weakly. "I suppose you've had as much warning as you need," he said. "Yes, dear Captain. Yes." He stumbled to the basin, cleaned up, then took her hand in his. She held on tightly.

In the annals of the world's most unromantic proposals, Cordelia thought, it would rank quite highly. On the other hand, he wasn't her prisoner, which put it a step above the previous attempts.

"I'm going to marry Captain Naismith," he informed his father as they went back through the sitting-room.

Count Vorkosigan looked at them both, then stood up. "My congratulations. I welcome you to our House, Captain Naismith." Cordelia had the impression he was trying not to laugh, and supposed she could understand why.

"You should probably go lie down," she said to Aral, who was supporting himself with an arm around her shoulders and was still very pale.

"Yes," he murmured. "God, Cordelia. Your timing..."

"My timing is wonderful," Cordelia said, feeling a little drunk herself on the wonderful craziness of it all. A proposal accepted under the influence of mind-altering chemicals wouldn't even be valid on Beta Colony, but as things stood, Cordelia was perfectly content to have as un-Betan a marriage as she could.

"I suppose it is," Aral said, and turned, his arm still around her. Cordelia gave the Count a cheerful smile and hauled her fiancé off to put him to bed.

Aral's bedroom here turned out to be large and handsome and very clean and neat. She sat down with him on the edge of the bed. "I'll get you some water," she said. "And some painkillers."

"The headache hasn't started yet," Aral objected. "Normally I wait."

"This time you're not going to punish yourself," Cordelia said. She found an attached washroom and rummaged about until she found what she wanted--the labels on the packets were in the Barrayaran script that took her a few moments to decipher--and brought it back for Aral. He said, "Cordelia ... are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure. I tried to live without you. I couldn't do it."

In answer, his arms went around her. "My dear," he breathed in her ear, "my dearest and most glorious Cordelia. You are my breath."

That he could say something like that, that he would say something like that, without the slightest hint of embarrassment or self-consciousness, melted her. But he pushed her back as she made to kiss him, saying, "I'm not a very appealing prospect right now, love. Also," he grimaced, "I really need to lie down before I pass out on you. Ma Thornton will make you up a room."

"Can't I stay here?"

"You can stay wherever you want, but I'm going to be up in the night throwing up some more," he said baldly, lying back in the bed.

"For better, for worse," Cordelia murmured, but evidently that ancient phrase hadn't survived on Barrayar, because he just looked blank. And sick. He curled around himself under the blanket.

It was a nicely large bed, but she didn't want to sleep in this dress. "All my things are in my lightflyer. I just need to go and get them."

He gazed at her through half-closed eyes. "Someone will fetch them for you. Stay here." He reached out a hand, pressed a button by the bed, and said into a discreet intercom, "Sergeant? Can you bring m'lady's things up from her flyer? Thanks."

Sergeant Bothari entered a few minutes later, carrying Cordelia's two bags. He placed them on a stand, then saluted her.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Cordelia said blandly. She found a pair of pyjamas, got cleaned up and tucked herself into the other side of Aral's bed.

As he had predicted, he wasn't the most congenial of companions, sweating and miserable in the early stages of his hangover, but Cordelia fell asleep beside him, one hand resting on his back.

A clatter from the bathroom in the dark of the night, followed by a muttered oath, brought her awake. Cordelia sat up with a jerk, completely disoriented for a moment, dream and reality blending. She was in Vorrutyer's cabin and he was kneeling over her with a knife, she was on the Escobaran liner and they were questioning her day and night, but she wouldn't tell them... no. She was on Barrayar, in Aral's bed, and Aral was making his way out of the bathroom. It was too dark to see his face, but she recognised the silhouette. She would recognise any part of him, she thought.

"Oh," he said, seeing her sitting up. "I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry. Are you sure you don't want to go and try to get some proper sleep in a guest room?"

"No," she said, hearing her voice shake a little. "I d-d... I don't want to. And I'm rather glad you woke me up."

He sat down on the side of the bed. "Ah." He reached out and touched her, a little hesitantly. His hand was chilly.

"You should get into bed," she told him, trying to shake off the dream.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"It was only the usual." Cordelia leaned in towards him, and they fell into the bed again, Aral's arm around her. "I've had it ... most nights, since."

Aral pulled the blankets over them both, and Cordelia allowed herself to nestle into his arms, shivering. He was a little shaky himself, and he moved gingerly. Definitely a case of one casualty trying to treat another, she thought, but it was the best they had.

"It's over," he mumbled into her shoulder. "It's all over. We survived."

Not _we won_ , Cordelia thought. She lay back against Aral spoon-fashion, soaking up the feel of him, the reality of him in the same bed as she was.

"You can go back to sleep," he said softly. "I've got your back."

Curled against him, she fell asleep, and if she had any further dreams, she didn't remember them.

*

Cordelia woke early, blinking at the strange Barrayaran daylight through the edges of the curtains, its colours subtly wrong to her eye. She was on Barrayar. She was on Barrayar, and Aral was beside her. He was sleeping deeply now, his body taking payment for the punishment he'd put it through, and he didn't stir as she got up and went to the bathroom. She hesitated between getting back into bed with him and going to explore. But Aral looked like he was going to sleep for hours more, and Cordelia felt refreshed and curious about this place, where she was going to make her home. She was an explorer in truth now, here on this alien planet with its alien customs. She showered and dressed quietly in yesterday's flowered dress and went to the door, then hesitated, picturing Aral waking up to find her gone. There was a desk in the corner of the room, and Cordelia made her first discovery when she found a pad of paper in one corner, actual wood-pulp paper, and an ink pen. A little awkwardly, partly because she was reluctant to use the valuable commodity, partly because she was unfamiliar with the way the pen worked, Cordelia wrote 'I didn't want to wake you. I'm exploring your house. Love, Cordelia' and put it by the bed.

The corridor outside was wood-panelled, the panels carefully shaped to look like folds of cloth. Cordelia stopped to stare at it, then delicately run a finger over the wood. It was silky beneath her skin, evidently polished. The whole house was covered in wood panels, she realised, looking along the corridor. And the floor beneath the rug was wooden. It seemed a display of unimaginable wealth.

She tried to imagine Aral growing up here, running down these luxurious corridors, in and out of all these rooms as a young man, as a young officer, proud and whole before all these Barrayaran nightmares had been laid upon him. The mental image seemed to give an added lustre to the polished wood. Her imagination leaping forward provided her with images of their children, someday, running around this house again, filling it with noise and bustle.

She continued through the house, down the wide and sweeping staircase, stopping to look at the elaborate carvings on the rails. She hadn't noticed it last night, helping Aral up to bed, but now she walked slowly, admiring everything she saw. The beauty of this planet was like balm to her heart, grand and wonderful in its way like the beauty of deep space.

At the foot of the stairs, she encountered a young woman in a brown uniform who looked at Cordelia and bobbed a curtsey.

"Is there anywhere I can get breakfast, do you know?" Cordelia asked. "I'm Cordelia Naismith, by the way," she added, then felt a little foolish. It wasn't as though there were any other strange Betan women here, after all.

"There is breakfast in the morning room," the young woman said, her English heavily accented. "The Count is within."

"Oh, thanks," Cordelia said, and went where the young woman gestured.

"Good morning, Cordelia," said the Count, rising from his seat at the table--this time round and not ridiculously large for the number of people who might be eating at it. "Is Aral still sleeping it off?"

"Yes, I doubt he'll be up for a while."

The Count sighed. "He's got no head for drinking. It's embarrassing having a son who's under the table before they've finished the toasts."

This statement baffled Cordelia, but she sat opposite the Count at his gesture, and he resumed his seat.

"Your house is beautiful," she said. "It must be very old."

"It used to be the barracks," he told her, "back when the family lived at the castle. But it does well enough for us nowadays."

The brown-uniformed woman came and poured tea for Cordelia, then returned with a platter, which she held deftly over Cordelia's shoulder. Cordelia served herself from it a little awkwardly, not quite recognising the various items but willing to try the local food. It seemed a far cry from the standard coffee and cereal she'd been used to having for breakfast.

"Ma Thornton's cooked up a special breakfast for you," the Count observed. "Our people are very excited about there being a Lady Vorkosigan again. If there's something you'd prefer, I'm sure Ma Thornton would like to talk to you about your tastes."

"This is fine," Cordelia said vaguely, helping herself to a bit of everything. It was a bit more strongly-flavoured than she expected, but not unpleasant.

"You know," the Count said, his thin lips curling in a faint smile, "I haven't heard a Betan accent in years. My wife was half-Betan, and she had a bit of a Betan accent in English. Though not as much as her mother, of course."

Cordelia remembered the story of how Aral's mother had been murdered, and looked around her a little uncomfortably. Had it been here, or in the dining room they'd eaten in last night? She hoped not.

She applied herself to the breakfast, savouring the unfamiliar tastes.

"So," the Count said, sipping tea, "tell me about your family. What is your father?"

It seemed a strange way to phrase the question. "He was in the Survey as well," she said. "He died when I was young."

The Count gave a grave nod. "Ah. My condolences." He finished his tea, then said, "But he was an officer. That's good."

"No, he wasn't an officer, he was an engineering technician. Knew everything about norm-space engines, he really loved it."

"Oh. Well," the Count said, "I suppose that's still an important job."

"All jobs are important," Cordelia said. "A society can't function without people to play each role any more than a ship can."

"Indeed, indeed. And... your mother?"

"She's a medtech. She works at Silica Central Hospital. She says she spends half her time breaking in the junior doctors, making sure they don't use the replicators upside down, that sort of thing." Cordelia smiled in memory, but the smile faded as she thought of her most recent memories of her mother.

"I see."

Since he seemed interested, she went on, "I have a brother too. He's not a scientist, though. He's in the feelie business, producing and editing them. He seems to like it."

The Count nodded vaguely, and said, with the air of a man turning to a more hopeful subject in relief, "But you have commanded ships, is that not so? How many men--and women," he added as a too-obvious afterthought, "were under your command?"

"On the Survey ship I had a crew of sixty." She smiled reminiscently. "They were a real education to command. Never a dull moment, I can tell you. During the war--well, then my command was a lot smaller."

The Count gave a knowing smile. "But no less critical, I believe. There's no need to feel uncomfortable about that, my dear," he added warmly. "I assure you, your assassination of Admiral Vorrutyer was both a masterly piece of soldiering, and a--a great personal boon. I have spent over twenty years hoping daily to hear that someone had killed that man."

"I didn't--" Cordelia began, then stopped. Bothari was here, after all. And if Aral wanted to keep these things from his father, she wasn't going to jeopardise that.

"I understand," the Count said again, though Cordelia felt certain he did not. "All the greatest soldiers I've known have been modest about their achievements." He gave her a firm, direct nod, and Cordelia had to hold back the urge to salute. Though perhaps people did salute their in-laws here. She'd heard of stranger customs.

He looked around. "Is there anything else you'd like? You may give whatever orders you wish here; if you want to tell Ma Thornton how you'd like your meals... you will soon be mistress here, after all, and can arrange things to suit yourself." He paused. "Though I'd ask that you keep on the old staff. Many of them have been with the family their whole lives. And of course we'll need to take on some more--a lady's maid for you, naturally, and--" his eyes twinkled "--perhaps some nurserymaids in time."

Cordelia was beginning to have a sense of panic. "I don't know--what does a lady's maid even _do_? I've never employed, um, servants, before."

The Count smiled at her. "Ah yes, of course. Well, you've no need to worry about any of that now. I'm sure Ma Thornton or one of the girls would be happy to wait on you as you require it. There'll be plenty of time for you to adjust to how we do things here."

"Yes," Cordelia said faintly. "I can see there's a lot to adjust to."

"If you're finished, I'd be happy to show you around." The Count rose and came around to her side of the table, and to Cordelia's surprise, pulled her chair back for her as she began to stand up. Whether because she was lucky or because he was immensely practised at this, she didn't get tangled in its legs and topple over. "Judging from past experiences, Aral will be asleep for at least another hour, maybe two, and it's a lovely day."

About that, at least, Cordelia felt on firm ground. Planetary meteorology hadn't been her speciality, but she understood what was meant by the clear unclouded sky, the bright sun and the still air. She nodded and allowed herself to be guided out of the house. The Count extended his arm to her gracously.

"I shall be very happy to have a daughter again," he said. "We need a woman's touch around here."

Cordelia wondered what was specific about a woman's touch that a man couldn't do, but she didn't ask, not wanting to offend him. He seemed a kindly man, if a little stern. She wondered how much like him Aral would be when he reached that age. It warmed her heart to think that she would find out, one day.

Perhaps inevitably, given what Aral had said, the Count started his tour at the stables. There was a strong smell about the place, not entirely unpleasant, but unlike anything Cordelia had experienced before, even at the zoo. She followed the Count to a divided door. He looked in and clucked his tongue, and a moment later, an enormous head poked through the top of the door and made a snuffling noise. Cordelia jumped backwards, the horse's head went up and the Count made soothing sounds.

"Belle is very gentle," he informed her, reaching up and scratching the animal behind her mobile ears, then clapping his hand to her neck a few times. Hesitantly, Cordelia imitated him, feeling the warmth and the coarse hair and muscle that made up the animal.

"She's very large," she said, a wary eye on Belle's head.

"Not that large, for a horse," the Count said. "Fifteen hands. They still use draught horses in the village for ploughing the fields that are hard to get at with a tractor; those are massive animals." He patted Belle again. "Good mare. We used a lot like her in the war."

"Which war was that, sir?" Cordelia asked politely, stepping back before the horse could start licking her again.

The Count gave her an astonished look, as if she'd asked him which way was down, and said, " _The_ war. Against the Cetas. Surely they've heard of it on Beta--well, I know they've heard of it on Beta, you were selling us missiles."

"Oh, yes," Cordelia said. She had heard the Barrayaran guerrilla struggle against the Cetagandans mentioned in history lessons at school, and she'd heard of it again in the history books she'd read on Aral's ship a few months ago. It had, she recalled, been a byword for brutality even amongst the history of guerrilla warfare. And yes, General Count Piotr Vorkosigan had been named repeatedly... she hadn't quite put the pieces together in her head before. "Yes, I've heard about it, a little. I didn't realise you used horses, though."

A pleased smile was beginning to cross the Count's face. "Well, my dear, in the war we used whatever we had. Though the horses weren't much good for fighting, most of the time, not against the Ceta weapons. But they were useful sometimes. The Cetagandan governor of this region--at least, he called himself the governor, not that he governed anyone--took an interest in local customs and taught himself to ride. He was a showy, pompous bastard, like all Cetas, and so he thought he'd ride a stallion even though he had no idea how to control the animal. So we led out a mare--a lot like Belle here--when she was in season, the stallion bolted and brought him straight into our hands. And that was the end of that governor. They sent another, of course, but... that was a good day, that was."

Cordelia nodded, and the topic of horses and the Cetagandan guerrilla war kept them occupied throughout the rest of the tour of the stables and grounds. The horse scent seemed to cling to them even after they'd finally left the stables, and Cordelia still wasn't sure whether she liked it or not. They walked back up towards the house, and Cordelia finally managed to disengage herself from the Count's storytelling. It was compelling, in a nightmarish kind of way, but he appeared capable of talking for hours without a pause, and she was starting to want to go back to Aral. She'd come here for him, not for Barrayar, and she'd had enough of exploration for now.

Returning to the house, she went back upstairs and into Aral's room. There was a sudden flurry of movement from the bed, and Aral was holding a stunner on her, his eyes barely open. Cordelia froze.

"Aral," she said softly, "it's me."

He blinked at her, then dropped the stunner abruptly and fell back against the pillows. "God," he muttered, "I'm so sorry. I thought... I thought it was a dream."

"I left you a note," Cordelia said. "I went to explore your house." She eased further into the room. "Should I knock, in future?" She wasn't sure whether his reaction had been a trauma flashback, or just his normal Barrayaran reflex to someone walking into his bedroom unannounced.

"Probably a good idea," he said smearily. "At least until I get used to this... God, Cordelia..."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand finding his and closing around it. "It's all right. I, um, don't react well to some things at the moment either. It'll get better."

He opened bloodshot eyes and looked up at her. "You're a soldier too," he said, and that brought a smile to her lips.

"Yes. I am. I understand." She studied him for a moment. "More painkillers?"

"Please."

A few minutes later he looked a bit less white and sick, and he sat up, squinting at her uncertainly. "Have you been up long?"

"A few hours, I guess. I had breakfast with your father. He showed me around a bit, and told me a lot of stories about the Cetagandan war. I kind of hope some of them weren't true."

Aral focused on her. "They probably were," he said. "At least, if they were ugly as hell and make you feel sick, they were probably true. If they were funny they might have been made up."

"I think some of them were meant to be funny," Cordelia said. "It was weird. Though I know some anthropologists who'd love to interview him."

Aral gave a weak laugh. "He keeps getting exquisitely polite letters from the history department at Vorbarr Sultana university. I was writing refusals for him a few days ago. Perhaps you'll be able to convince him to accept." He swung himself out of bed, grimacing. "I'd better get cleaned up. Though I think I'll pass on the breakfast."

"Can I look around in here?" Cordelia asked.

"You can go anywhere you like," Aral said, "but I don't know that there's much interesting in here." He vanished into the bathroom, and Cordelia wandered around the room. There was a discreet door she hadn't noticed before at the far end, covered with the same patterned wallpaper as the walls, and she opened it to discover a corridor that led to the servants' part of the house. The entire place seemed to be organised around the principle of servants to do whatever you wanted. It was very strange. Though, this being Barrayar, that door probably doubled as a second escape route from this room.

She found a closet, with a row of different uniforms and clean shirts, and hung her few clothes up in it alongside Aral's things. The sight pleased her eye. She was just studying the view from the window when Aral returned, scrubbed and shaved neatly and clad only in a towel.

"So," she asked, watching with pleasure as he began to get dressed, "what shall we do today?"

"Today," Aral returned promptly, "we get married."

Cordelia's lips widened in a smile. "Well, that beats my idea for going for a walk by that lake."

"Oh, we can do that too," Aral said. "I'll need to send down to the Speaker in Vorkosigan Surleau--" he saw Cordelia's baffled look, and explained "--the village, not the house. They have the same name. But it will take a while to sort out the paperwork, so there'll be a bit of time. There's a nice trail, two hours' walk or so, along the lake and through the woods."

"We can just get married today, like that?"

"Oh yes. All we have to do is make vows in front of two witnesses, and have the marriage entered into the District records. Father will kick a bit, but leave that to me. I don't want to wait." He paused a moment. "Do you?"

Cordelia couldn't think of anything she would wait for. If she'd been getting married at home, that would be different, but this was Barrayar. "It sounds fine to me."

"Good." He hesitated over the wardrobe, then put on a plain shirt and trousers, clearly casual clothes. They went downstairs, and again Cordelia marvelled at the house. Aral watched her face with delight.

"I've never seen anywhere like this," she said, reaching out to stroke the wood panelling again. "It's amazing."

Aral put his hand over hers on the wall, as if he could share in her wonder that way. "I've never really thought about it before. I suppose it is."

She followed Aral into an office, as rich and spacious as the rest of the house, where the Count was seated at an enormous carved wooden desk. He stood up as she entered.

"Ah, you're up. Feeling better?" he asked, only a slight tang of irony in his voice as he addressed Aral.

"Very much so, thank you," Aral said. Cordelia felt him straighten. "We're going to get married this afternoon."

There was a brief silence. Aral seemed strangely tense, holding his breath.

"This afternoon?" Count Piotr echoed a moment later, as if he hadn't understood the words. "You can't get married this afternoon."

"Of course we can. All we have to do is sort out the paperwork with the Speaker down in the village, it won't take long."

The Count looked dismayed. "But--the family, the Counts, the Emperor... don't you want to have a proper wedding?"

"It wouldn't be fair, with none of Cordelia's friends or family able to come," Aral said. "Besides, a lot of the people I'd invite are dead. And I'm not going to wait three months whilst Cousin Alys has a field day at my expense." Aral met his father's gaze squarely. "I did it properly the first time. Three hundred guests including the Emperor, a twelve-course banquet and three hours of toasting, everything. Not again."

His father looked away. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Well, getting married is the main thing; if you insist on making a runaway match of it, so be it."

"Thank you," Cordelia said, feeling her way in this difficult relationship between Aral and his father.

At that, Count Piotr gave a small smile. "My debt is all to you, dear lady." He raised a hand. "You can have a quiet morning here. I'll go down to talk to the Speaker and make the arrangements for you."

"That wasn't as bad as I thought," Aral said after they retreated from the study.

"I don't--are you sure you want to do it this way?" Cordelia asked. "I don't really know anything about traditional marriages here." She paused. "I don't really know much about anything Barrayaran, come to think of it. Your father seemed utterly shocked that I didn't know what 'the war' was without being told. I think I'm missing a lot."

"I don't," Aral said. "I am utterly finished with Barrayaran nonsense now." His voice lowered. "When you see me, you don't see all that--the uniform, the history, the name. You just see me. You have no idea what a gift that is."

Cordelia put her arms around him, and they held each other for a moment. "I only want to see you," she whispered in his ear. "My Aral."

They were interrupted by a servant sidling quietly by. Aral seemed not to notice, but Cordelia felt suddenly self-conscious and pulled back, though she kept hold of Aral's hand. He smiled at her. "Come on. I'll show you the lake."

Cordelia followed him out the door. His energy seemed to be returning slowly; she no longer had to moderate her pace so that he could keep up. It had grown warmer since she'd been out with the Count, but not what she would consider hot, and the air was moist and clean. She thought she could almost smell the lake, all that water shimmering in the sunlight.

"I can't believe you have lakes like this here. Is it unusual?"

"Not at all. There are a lot of freshwater lakes in the District. Most of them are terraformed now, and there's some aquaculture going on in this lake, down the other end. We smoke some of the salmon and trout ourselves here--I expect Ma Thornton had some out for breakfast, didn't she?"

"That was... that was from an animal?" Cordelia said, her hand going to her lips. "I thought--" She hadn't really thought about it at all, just assumed that everyone ate vat-protein here the way everyone did on Beta. Which was a foolish assumption, when she thought about it. "Was all the protein we had here from animals?"

"I should think so. Is that a problem... you ate that creature we killed, though." Aral was looking at her worriedly.

"For survival, yes. But not if there are alternatives."

"Oh." Aral frowned. "I'll talk to Ma Thornton. I don't know... there's vat-protein for the fleet, of course, but people don't generally eat it on-planet when they can get real meat. But if you prefer it, I'm sure we can make sure there is some."

Cordelia nodded, suppressing the impulse to tell Aral it didn't matter. It did matter to her, and he obviously wanted to make her feel comfortable here.

They went downhill sharply, and suddenly they were on the lakeshore. It was sandy and beautiful, and Cordelia stopped just to gaze at it. There was a jetty a little way off, with a couple of boats tied up.

Following her gaze, Aral said, "I'll take you sailing sometime. Not now, there's a good chance we'll both go in and--well, I'd rather not try to sail until I'm feeling a bit less..."

Hungover, Cordelia mentally completed for him.

"I've been in a boat before," she said. "We were surveying a water world, about--oh, four standard years ago, I think, and we had to do everything from boats. It wasn't like this, though."

Aral gave her an admiring look, then led her along the beach. "We swim here, in the summer. At least, I used to--I haven't done much lately. But it might be fun... you do know how to swim, don't you?"

"Oh yes. It's a requirement in the Survey." Which she wasn't in, any longer. It was hard to remember that. But she'd never actually had to swim in open water like this. The lake seemed vast, almost a small ocean, tucked in the folds of the land.

"It seems an idyllic life," she said. "Walking here, swimming, sailing--riding those horses, too, I suppose, and you don't even have to do your own cooking and cleaning. What do you do, to fill the day?" She paused. "I mean, normally." When you're not filling the days with heavy drinking, she meant, but didn't need to say.

"Well, running the District will suck up as much time and energy as you have to give," Aral said. "Father's been trying to get me to take up a hand in it a bit more, and I suppose I ought to, since he's getting on a bit now. That's mostly in Hassadar, though--that's our capital city."

Cordelia noted that 'our' with a bit of mental whiplash.

"They'll be very excited about having a new Lady Vorkosigan," he added thoughtfully. "There's a lot you could do, if you wanted."

She blinked at that. "Once I marry you, I become part of your government?" she said carefully. "I didn't realise that."

Aral set off up a slope at the end of the beach and they began to climb into the hills. "Not so much now," he said. "But when my father dies, I become Count Vorkosigan, and you become Countess Vorkosigan. A Countess's role is not so strictly defined--the District's done fine without one for thirty years. But yes. You could be as involved as you wanted."

The idea that she could just marry into the government was hard to get her head around. "It's not what I'd expected. Local government, I mean."

Aral halted and looked at her worriedly. "Does it make you want to change your mind? You'd be excellent at it, dear Captain, I have no doubt."

"No," she said firmly. Nothing could make her change her mind about wanting this man, and it seemed Barrayar and its government came with him. "It's just a surprise. But it'll make an interesting new direction, I expect."

They followed the path through the hills, then came to a place that reminded Cordelia powerfully of the spot they had camped on their last night on the new planet. She and Aral glanced at each other.

"Do you remember--" Aral began, Cordelia grinned and nodded, and they both began to laugh, just for the happiness of being together here. Aral flung an arm around her shoulders and they continued their walk, scrambling down a long slope to a narrow fast-flowing creek that fed into the lake. "There are some stepping stones ... oh, over here." Aral stepped across first, then extended a hand to her. Charmed, Cordelia took it and followed him across the creek. Then they set off up the steep slope on the opposite side.

At the top, Cordelia noticed ruefully, they were both breathless and sweating. Aral wasn't the only one who hadn't been exercising much lately. The bluff overlooking the lake was mossy and pleasant, and Cordelia sat down and stretched out her legs. Aral grinned and sat beside her, then put an arm out. She leaned in against him and they both caught their breath, looking across the lake to the village and the distant hills. _Lord of all you survey_ , Cordelia realised, wasn't just a figure of speech, here.

She let her head rest against Aral, breathing him in. His arm tightened around her, she tilted her head, and very slowly, Aral kissed her. It was chaste and close-mouthed at first, but after a moment his lips parted and he pulled her closer. But it wasn't a very comfortable position, sitting side-by-side, and Aral twisted around, pushing her backwards a little and accidentally trapping her hand underneath him.

A moment later he was flat on his back on the grass, and Cordelia was in defensive crouch a little way off, breathing hard. She forced herself to look at Aral. He wasn't Bothari, he wasn't Admiral Vorrutyer, he was her own Aral.

"Ah," Aral said, not moving. "I'm sorry."

Cordelia grimaced, her racing pulse starting to calm. "I didn't mean to..." she responded weakly.

"No. I should have been more careful, should have known better." He sat up again and sighed. "I did know better, once, not to do that to a soldier--" he broke off and looked away.

Cordelia sat up too and moved closer to Aral. "Admiral Vorrutyer." It wasn't a question.

Aral's head reared back. "How did you know--"

"He told me."

"Oh." Aral looked out over the lake, not speaking. "Yes," he said at last, not meeting her eye. "He never reacted well to anything like that." He fingered the scar on his cheek. "You knew... and you came anyway." He sounded like holding his voice steady was the greatest effort of his life. Cordelia nestled closer to him.

"And I'm going to marry you in a few hours. Yes."

"But--after what he did to you..."

"You didn't do it."

"I made him what he was," Aral whispered.

That brought an unwilling smile to Cordelia's lips. "You think so? I've seen what you make people into. Bothari, Illyan, Koudelka. Not Vorrutyer."

"You don't know what I was like, then. I was a mess, Cordelia. Much worse than these past few months. After ... after I killed those men, and my wife died, I did everything stupid and self-destructive and ugly you can imagine. And I did it with Ges."

"I've done stupid and self-destructive things," Cordelia said. "We change, we grow up, we learn better."

Aral still wasn't meeting her eye. "A Barrayaran woman," he said at last, "wouldn't have anything to do with me if she knew I'd been with a man. Any man."

Cordelia grimaced. "I've slept with a woman, once. And a herm. It was enjoyable, but my main attraction is to men."

That made Aral stare at her, looking more shocked than when she'd knocked him over. She gradually realised he really believed his sexuality could make him undesirable.

"God, Aral," she said finally, stroking his arm, "what do they do to people here?" She made him keep looking at her, her hand on his shoulder. "You had a relationship with--with Ges." It was easier to call him that, it separated him from the Admiral Vorrutyer who'd terrorised her. "And you went through a bad patch. I still want to marry you."

He gazed at her for a long time then, as if searching her for doubts, for mental reservations, but she had none, about this. Finally he leaned in against her and said, "You amaze me so much. I never believed anyone could ... could just accept all this."

Cordelia pulled him close. "Believe it, my love."

They sat holding each other for a while, and then Cordelia cupped Aral's cheek in her hand. "Let's try this again."

She kissed him, exploring how he responded, learning the taste and feel of him, the shape of his mouth against hers, its heat. But when she made to undo the buttons of his shirt with one hand--it was isolated up here, and she wanted him badly--he drew back. Cordelia made an inquiring noise, and he said, "Not up here. It's not as romantic as it sounds, honestly. A bed is much better."

It was true that Cordelia had never attempted to have sex on a planetary surface before, exposed to the elements, and there was a cool breeze starting up now. Aral looked at his chrono. "We'd probably better keep going, or we'll end up getting married in the middle of the night. It's going to take some time to sort everything out." He stood up and pulled Cordelia to her feet. A little regretfully, she followed him down the path. But there would be more opportunities, a whole lifetime of them ahead.

They walked along the hill above the lake, the land around them amazingly open above the wooded valley, the sky clear and wide, a breeze on their faces. It was, Cordelia thought, as far from Beta as it was possible to get, as far from the chaos and pain she'd left there.

"I nearly killed someone to get here," she heard herself say suddenly.

Aral's head turned, but he swallowed whatever he'd been going to say, and merely made an inquiring, listening noise. Cordelia was glad. She didn't think she could face questions right now.

"A therapist. She was in the Survey, a sister-officer, I guess. I held her head underwater to make her tell me where she had guards on my home." She swallowed hard as the memory rushed through her, her terror and anger and determination replaying in her head. "I wanted to kill her, a little. I didn't ... I've never wanted to kill someone before. Not seriously, not when I could actually do it."

Aral gave a slow nod. "It's terrifying," he said. Of course, she thought, he would understand. He'd been there too. "What happened?" he asked softly.

And she told him the whole story, speaking slowly, walking a step away from him. She told him about the Escobaran therapists, about the President and Tailor and her mother and finally Mehta. Aral listened without interruption, his silence warm and safe, no judgement, merely understanding and acceptance. It was his silent acceptance, even more than reliving the experience, that made a tear leak from her eye, and then another. She sniffed, swallowed, and started to cry in earnest. Aral stood at her side until she made a movement towards him, and then he drew her into his arms.

She tried to choke her tears back, mumbling an apology, but Aral said in her ear, "Cry if you need to. You were betrayed, my love, betrayed by the people you should have been able to trust. It hurts."

"Yes," she whispered, and clung to him. She'd wept before for the things she'd experienced and done, but not until now had she been given and received comfort. Now she let her head rest on Aral's shoulder and allowed him to share her grief as she'd shared his fears.

"It's past now," he told her when she finally raised her head and wiped her face messily on her sleeve. "You did what you could to survive, and then you got away. It's over."

"No, it's not," she muttered, and Aral flinched.

"No," he agreed. "It never is. But it does get better."

A thought struck her. "It might not be over at all. There's still a warrant out for my arrest. I saw a news report when I was on the jumpship. On Escobar too." Her luck--if it had been luck--had held so far, but she didn't think the Betans would give up that easily.

"Nobody will pursue you here," Aral said firmly. "Especially after we marry--you'll be under my father's protection as Count Vorkosigan, and the Emperor's, as High Vor. And besides, we tore up our extradition treaty with Beta and Escobar after the war. So as far as that's concerned, it's over. My word on it."

That sent a curious relief through her. Barrayar's barbarism and feudalism would serve her now, would work in her favour for a change. She leaned against Aral and began to feel truly safe at last.

They continued walking back to the house, but only talked of little things, both emotionally wrung. Aral went into plans for taking her sailing and riding and touring the most interesting sights of his District, and Cordelia asked him questions about all the plants and animal life she saw and told stories of old survey missions, and by the time they reached the house, they were both calm and composed again.

They were met again by the Count. "The Speaker has blocked off the rest of the afternoon for you. You can go down whenever you're ready." He hesitated, looking at Aral. "Will you wear your House uniform?" he said. There was a strange note in his voice that Cordelia didn't quite understand, almost pleading.

Aral paused, looking at Cordelia. "Do you mind?" he said.

"You should wear whatever feels right," Cordelia said. Not that she had anything better than this strange dress. If she'd known she was going to be getting married in it, she'd have taken more time choosing it.

He nodded. "All right. I'll go on up and change."

The Count followed him up the stairs, leaving Cordelia sitting in the parlour. She'd barely been there a moment when a plump, grey-haired woman entered and bobbed a shallow curtsey. "I wonder if you'd care to come with me and we can get you ready," she said, beaming at Cordelia. "There's no time to do things properly, of course, but some of the girls and I have been having a think about what would be best. If you don't mind coming with us..."

"Are you Ma Thornton?" Cordelia asked.

"That's right," she said, curtseying again.

"Then you were Aral's nanny when he was young."

Ma Thornton's smile broadened. "That I was."

Cordelia followed her upstairs and along to a different room, furnished elegantly, but somehow seeming unused to Cordelia. "We've all been hoping for years that he would find someone at last," Ma Thornton said, closing the door behind them. "And, if you'll pardon my saying so, we've all been very worried for him, recently."

"I ... hope that will change," Cordelia said.

"Oh, we can see the difference in him already." Ma Thornton turned to look at Cordelia, her eyes warm with affection. "I haven't seen him this happy for years." She opened a closet. "Now then. I think some of the Countess's old gowns would fit you. She was a tall woman. If you'd like to wear one of them, I think it would be very suitable."

Cordelia looked in at an array of bright silky fabrics, all very elegant-looking. "All right," she said. "But nothing too fancy, please. I'm not really used to dresses, I'd be afraid of damaging it."

"Well, I took a look at your things that you brought, to get an idea for the size, and I took as many of the Countess's gowns as I thought might fit you out of storage, so we'll see if any of these suit you." Ma Thornton gestured to the closet. "I'm afraid there wasn't anything in white, though."

Cordelia looked through the row of dresses more carefully. Some of them were intensely complicated, with layers of lace and embroidery and little jewels stitched into the fabric, and as she ran her hand over them, she realised that they had been made entirely by hand. She looked at the simpler ones, and finally pulled out a pale green dress, which fell straight without an array of underskirts, and which didn't look too fussy, though it did have a lot of darker green embroidery on the bodice.

Ma Thornton smiled. "That was a gift to the Countess from her mother. It's--well, I don't suppose you'd think it was a Betan style, but it was made with an eye to the Betan fashions of the time."

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about Betan fashions," Cordelia said. "Except that body paint is in this year, but I never really liked it."

Ma Thornton took the dress and, to Cordelia's surprise, began to help Cordelia out of the flowery dress. Not used to having someone help her with her clothes, Cordelia stood awkwardly and stiffly as Ma Thornton dressed her. But when it was on, the green dress looked very nice: simple, but elegant and graceful. She looked, Cordelia thought, like someone who could become _Lady Vorkosigan_.

"Oh, yes, that's lovely on you," Ma Thornton said. "Perfect. Now, if you like, I'll call Yanna and she'll do your hair for you."

Feeling a little stunned, Cordelia nodded. Yanna proved to be a much younger woman, younger than Cordelia, who entered with an armload of flowers. Her bobbing curtsey was a little awkward with her burden, but she put the flowers down on a cloth spread on the floor, and smiled shyly at Cordelia. Cordelia allowed herself to be shepherded onto a stool, and Yanna began to do her hair. The crown of braids and curls that resulted, studded with white flowers, made her blink in surprise and delight.

Yanna looked at her too, with obvious admiration. "You look perfect," she said. Then she hesitated, and reached into a pocket of her apron. "I got them to engrave this for you down in the workroom, if you want it." She produced a small mechanical padlock with a little key. Cordelia blinked at it.

"What's that for?" She had a sudden vision of having to wear it about her person, perhaps as some kind of virginity symbol.

"After the wedding. You go to the bridge over the Hazelbrook and fasten it to the rail, then throw the key into the stream."

"Is that what everyone does? Why?"

"Your love lasts as long as the lock," Ma Thornton explained. "Yanna, you shouldn't really--" she began, but Cordelia interrupted.

"It sounds like a very nice custom. Thank you, Yanna." She took the lock, and saw that it had her and Aral's initials engraved on it, and the Vorkosigan maple leaf on the other side. She dropped it into the little bag that Ma Thornton held out to her, and turned to survey her reflection again. She found it hard to picture the woman in the mirror commanding a ship or conducting a secret mission. Nor getting entangled in a hideous political and security disaster, nor knowing dangerous and deadly secrets. A new start, she thought, in a new life.

Dressed for her wedding, she went down to look for Aral. He blinked and stared gratifyingly as she appeared at the foot of the stairs. "My God," he said. "Cordelia." Then, more deeply, " _My lady_."

Cordelia looked and admired him in turn. He was wearing a glittery brown uniform, very smart and neat and polished. "Your Ma Thornton had a look through the old wardrobes here and found me this to wear. And all the flowers." She put up a hand to touch them carefully. "I've never had flowers in my hair before." They were an expensive luxury on Beta, taking precious hydroponics space from food production. Here they grew wild.

He smiled. "It's strange," he said, watching her, "even in a Barrayaran dress, you don't look like a Barrayaran woman. I'm glad."

Cordelia put her arm through his. "I'm not a Barrayaran woman and I don't plan to become one."

"I know." He hesitated. "What changed?" he asked finally.

She understood the question. "I still don't much like Barrayar. Your government is violent and repressive and you don't seem to be even trying to have equality for women. But... after what happened, I don't find that I care that much for Beta either. The only thing I knew I wanted was to be with you. I'd rather face Barrayar with you than Beta on my own."

Aral tilted his head against her shoulder. They went out onto the step, looking across the courtyard. "I don't care greatly for much of Barrayar either," he whispered, "but I think I can face it with you here."

They looked out across the drive for a few minutes of silence, then Aral straightened up again. "Seconds," he said, mysteriously. "We each need one, for the wedding. A witness. The clerk will stand witness for you if you like--it ought to be a woman, for you--unless you have any other ideas."

"That will be fine," Cordelia said. "What about you?"

Aral turned and looked around the corner. "Mine's coming now, if I have my timing right."

About ten seconds later, Cordelia saw a green-uniformed man walking across the end of the drive.

"Simon," Aral called, not particularly loudly, but Illyan turned. He blinked at the sight of Aral in his glittery uniform, and Cordelia in her green dress bedecked with flowers, and came over at once.

"Sir?" he said.

"You just don't believe I'm retired, do you?" Aral muttered parenthetically. "Simon, I need a Second, a witness."

"For what?" Illyan asked blankly, still staring at them both.

"For my wedding, of course," Aral said. "You spent long enough standing behind me. Come back me up again, for this."

"Now? But--"

"Yes, now. I've heard it all from Father, but we're going down to the Speaker in the village and getting married now. Will you come and be my Second, or do I have to start asking the servants?"

"I shouldn't--" Illyan said.

"You can witness it all for Negri and the Emperor too, it'll be very efficient. And you have to be the most credible witness on all Barrayar. Come on, Simon, it won't be hard and the drinks will be on me afterwards."

"If... if that's what you want, sir, of course," Illyan said. He bowed to Cordelia. "My lady."

That made her blink surprise. "I'm not anyone's lady," she said.

Illyan looked faintly scandalised, and Aral laughed. "No, indeed, you're my dear Captain," he said, snaking an arm around her. "Though I'm afraid people will start calling you that once we're married."

"Huh," Cordelia said. Barrayar was a very odd place.

Illyan was taking the opportunity to straighten his uniform and brush some specks of mud from his shiny boots. Then the Count emerged from the house, wearing an even more glittery version of Aral's brown uniform. He made an elegant bow to Cordelia. "You look glorious, my dear." Turning to Aral, he said, "Are you ready?"

To Cordelia's considerable astonishment, a double row of men marched out from the side of the house, also in the brown uniform, less glittery and more functional-looking, and formed up in a crisp line.

"I thought we were doing this without any fuss," Aral said to his father.

The Count regarded Aral coolly. "You'd deprive them of the chance to see Lord Vorkosigan married?"

Aral looked at Cordelia. "Do you mind?"

"Who are they?" she asked, though she was beginning to guess.

"Our Armsmen. Our personal guard." He looked at her suddenly. "Your personal guard, now."

Cordelia saw Bothari amongst them, in the second row. It seemed right that he should be here with them again. "All right," she said. "I guess ... it goes with your position, doesn't it?"

"That's right," the Count said, his tone softening a fraction. "Of course, you won't be used to this. But the Vorkosigan Armsmen have served with pride, and as you become a Vorkosigan, they will serve you as well."

Then, before Cordelia had quite finished scanning the rows of men, there was another arrival in the drive. A carriage, drawn by four horses that looked at Cordelia's first glance to be utterly identical. Cloned, perhaps? Perhaps inevitably, both the horses and the carriage were brown, though painted on the side of the carriage were the silver maple leaves and mountains she was beginning to recognise as the Vorkosigan symbol. She was a little surprised nobody had genetically engineered it into the horses' coats.

"Father..." Aral began again, but the Count simply said, "You can't _walk_ to your wedding, boy."

The carriage came to a halt at the foot of the steps, and she climbed up, followed by Aral and then the Count, who moved past them to sit in the front, leaving the rear of the carriage for Aral and Cordelia. Illyan, who had retreated when the Count arrived, went to follow on behind the Armsmen, and the procession set off along the road.

"It's all very archaic," Cordelia said, looking around. "I feel like I'm in a historical novel." The carriage wasn't as smooth as a flyer or a groundcar, but given the way the drive was rutted, with potholes filled in with gravel, even a groundcar would have given a bumpy ride.

"Well, even here we don't usually get about like this. Just for ceremonial occasions and when we want to be particularly Vorkosigan."

Cordelia supposed that made sense. She sat back, and Aral put his arm around her shoulder.

"What are you thinking?" he asked after a while, as she stared at the passing landscape without speaking.

Cordelia turned. "I was wishing my mother could be here. And my brother, and my nephew and niece." She cut herself off from making a long list of all the guests she'd always wanted to have at her wedding. They were on Beta, and she was here, and the divide between them was greater than mere distance now.

"I wish they were here for you too." His arm tightened around her. "I want to give you happiness, not sorrow."

"It's not your doing." She turned to face him. "And you do give me happiness. And, you know, if I could go back and do it all again, I think I'd do it all the same."

"If I could go back and do it all again..." Aral began, then fell silent. "I don't know what I'd do. Probably the same, in the end. Even... knowing what I know now, about how it would come out."

Cordelia rested her head against him. "Reach for happiness anyway," she said at last. "Because it's the best hope we have." She kissed his cheek, it being the nearest part of him she could reach.

"Listen to us," Aral agreed. "Anyone would think we were going to a funeral, not our wedding."

But it was a funeral, Cordelia thought, the death of their old lives, followed by the birth of the new. She leaned against Aral and watched the scenery go by, thinking about that.

The carriage came into the village, still embedded in its marching column of men, and people looked out of the windows of the houses and came to their doors. A few of the houses were flying the brown and silver flag, and there was some scattered applause as they passed. It was hard to understand exactly what Aral was to these people, but somewhere between a local celebrity, a politician and a religious icon seemed close. Cordelia couldn't imagine this response to her district councillor getting married.

Their procession came to a halt outside a stone-built building that was barely any larger than the other houses in the village. Its door was standing open and an elderly man waited in the doorway. For a change, he wasn't in brown and silver, but he did have the Vorkosigan symbol in a small pin on his jacket's lapel. The Armsmen formed up neatly and Aral climbed down first, then took Cordelia's hand and helped her down. She was grateful for the help, because coping with the trailing skirt was hard enough without the unfamiliar climb. The Count descended last, and he made the introductions.

The Speaker looked rather nervous as he led them inside. "I understand you require a female witness? Mistress Hysopi, who keeps my records, will be happy to serve." He gestured to the middle-aged woman behind him.

Cordelia shook her hand, which seemed to startle her, and said, "Thank you for helping us out. I'm afraid I don't know many people here yet."

"It's my pleasure," Mistress Hysopi said.

They entered a large office, and Cordelia had a moment of confusion as she saw a portrait of the Count and another of Aral, in his dress uniform looking blank and stern, hanging on the wall along with a third, a grim-looking elderly man in a red and blue uniform. "Who's that?" she asked Aral quietly.

He looked up. "The Emperor," he said. "Public offices are required to display a portrait of him and of the District Count. They put that one of me up after Komarr, I think."

The Speaker plunged straight into the business of getting ready for the marriage. He took their official documents--Aral's with an apologetic expression, explaining that it was a requirement, Cordelia's foreign immigrant permit with more curiosity, and then began to ask a series of formal questions--did they understand what they were undertaking, were they free of previous marriages or oaths, were they related in any of a long list of forbidden ways.

"Very good," he said at last. He made a gesture for the two witnesses, Illyan and Mistress Hysopi, to come forwards and present their credentials in turn, and then he took Cordelia and Aral's hands in his and began to prompt Cordelia in the marriage oath.

She echoed his words, taking care not to stumble over the unfamiliar phrases. The language was archaic and beautiful, the words heavy with meaning. She reached the end, and then it was Aral's turn. He waved the Speaker to silence and recited the entire oath from memory. His eyes blazed as he looked at her. Cordelia listened to his voice, vowing to love and protect and care for her his whole life long, and she felt tears starting in her eyes.

"... until we part in death," Aral concluded sombrely. The Speaker put her hand in Aral's, and they were married.

The tradition of kissing immediately following a marriage was apparently close to universal, and Cordelia saw no particular reason not to enjoy it to the full, though after about five minutes there was a slight shuffling noise from the Count and the Speaker, and she reluctantly broke away from Aral. He made a barely conscious gesture to pull her back, then restrained himself, whispering, "Later," in her ear.

"Congratulations, my son," the Count said, and Cordelia was touched by the way he embraced Aral, seeming genuinely happy despite his earlier objections. Then he embraced her and kissed her cheek. "Welcome to the family, my dear."

Then it was time for the paperwork, which Cordelia thought might be even more universal than kissing. She signed her name--her new, married name--a dozen times or more, and Aral did the same, then Illyan and Mistress Hysopi as witnesses, and the Speaker, and then the Count added his name and the Vorkosigan seal--with real wax, Cordelia saw, watching in sudden panic as the Count cheerfully juggled fire and paper and hot wax without apparently noticing how dangerous this could be or how destructive to the documents.

Finally it was all done, and they were able to leave the Speaker's office. Outside the door, the Armsmen were arrayed in two lines. As Cordelia and Aral emerged, they all shouted at once, a deafening masculine bellow that echoed around the buildings. Cordelia jumped, but Aral was grinning, so apparently this was expected.

"It's a shout of welcome for you," Aral said, and Cordelia nodded and smiled at the Armsmen.

The carriage reappeared and they climbed back in. There was more cheering as they departed.

"They have a dinner for us at the _Maple Leaf_ ," the Count said. He shook his head ruefully. "This may have been a rather unorthodox marriage, but you've certainly won the District's heart. The last Vorkosigan to get married in the District was my grandfather. That was at Vorkosigan Vashnoi, of course. There's never been a Vorkosigan wedding here."

Cordelia suddenly noticed that someone had decorated the carriage with flowers, a wealth of them tumbling across the back. It was hard to think of anything beyond the drumbeat in her head: I'm married to Aral, I'm married to Aral, I'm married to Aral. She snuggled in beside him and smiled, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by it all. Aral looked equally poleaxed, catching her hand and holding on.

It only took a few minutes riding through the village to reach the tavern. The stylised maple leaf was painted on its sign, matching that on the carriage. They went in, and Cordelia realised the public part of this wasn't over yet. She had no idea how many people lived in the village, but from the looks of things they were all here this evening. A path cleared to a couple of tables set apart on the waterfront, and there were cheers as Cordelia and Aral walked through, arm in arm. She felt herself begin to shake, and Aral's hand closed around hers. "Father can clear them all out if you want," he said quietly.

Cordelia forced herself to look at the crowd and smile. They were cheering in a mixture of English and what she thought was Barrayaran Russian--which the Count had told her was the first language in some parts of the District--and they looked entirely un-Betan, prematurely old, weatherbeaten, and wearing clothes that she suspected had been hand-dyed and sewn. They were not her enemy, and they all wanted to celebrate her marriage. She managed to calm herself and gave a genuine smile as they reached their table.

"My liege-people," Count Vorkosigan said, and whilst his voice was not loud, silence fell instantly. "I present to you my son and heir--and his wife!"

The cheer that followed was deafening. Aral, Cordelia saw, seemed to take it in stride, though he still gripped her hand. He raised his other hand in a small wave, which Cordelia imitated, and then he pulled back a chair for her and stood for a moment at her back, a hand on her shoulder, immensely reassuring both by his presence and his silent understanding of what she needed.

The noise died away to a low rumble, and Aral squeezed her shoulder and sat down beside her. The Count took a seat on her other side and their two Seconds sat down with the Speaker at the other places around the table.

When they were served, Cordelia saw at once that Aral had spoken to someone about her food preferences, because everything was unmistakeably made from vat-meat rather than live animals, though it was all still delicious. They didn't talk much through the meal, and the Count took up the task of keeping conversation flowing amongst the Speaker, Mistress Hysopi and Illyan with a panache that Cordelia had to admire. She kept looking up, catching Aral's eye and grinning foolishly at him, enjoying looking at him enough that she didn't feel any need to speak.

After they finished eating, Cordelia expected that they would leave, but instead, the Count rose and proposed a toast. And he wasn't the only one. The Speaker, the innkeeper, Illyan, six people Cordelia didn't know including one who spoke in Russian for ten minutes to raucous laughter--apparently everyone in the village wanted to propose a toast to the bride and groom. Cordelia sat and smiled and listened. Aral whispered, "They can keep it up all night. Don't drink more than the tiniest sip for each one, or you won't be able to walk from the table." It sounded like advice borne out of experience, but it wasn't the right place to ask for the rest of the story.

A shout went up from the back of the room suddenly, again in Russian, and there was a chorus of laughter. Aral grinned, then looked at Cordelia. "I have to kiss you, that means," he said.

Cordelia blinked at him.

"It's backcountry custom," he explained. "It would be bad luck not to."

Kissing Aral was no hardship. Cordelia leaned forwards. As their lips touched, a chant went up around the tavern, and over it a strong male voice began to sing, and more joined in. "We keep going till they finish singing," Aral explained, pulling back for a moment.

Cordelia almost wanted to take notes, but Aral's mouth on hers turned anthropological interest into less complex thoughts. By the time the song finished, she was sitting in Aral's lap and they were both rather flushed and breathless.

"All right," he said, "I think we can leave now."

Feeling entirely in sympathy with this wish, Cordelia stood up. A slightly alarming silence fell, broken by Aral standing beside her and turning to address the whole crowd, apparently without flinching in the slightest. He spoke a few brief words of thanks that won a final cheer from them all. She bent to say good night to the Count and the rest of their unexpected wedding party, and put her arm through Aral's.

"Let's walk back," Cordelia murmured to Aral after they escaped the inn. The carriage ride had been fun in its way, but she'd had enough of Barrayaran pomp and ceremony now. Aral nodded understanding, turned and spoke a few words to one of the Armsmen, and they began to walk through the village. A few people came out to watch them pass, but their decidedly non-public air seemed to work, for they didn't cheer or shout or do anything except silently watch and smile.

"They'll be partying all night here," Aral said. "I had no idea my getting married would be so popular. I never saw this before--when I married Irina, we were up in the capital, and there was too much going on for me to notice what our liege-people thought of it. Also," he grimaced, "I was a lot more stupid and self-absorbed then."

"Well, I guess it's nice that we've given them an excuse for a party. But I want you all to myself now."

Aral's arm tightened around her. "Then I'm all yours," he whispered.

Bothari was trailing them, Cordelia noticed a few minutes later, keeping to a discreet distance with another of his colleagues, and in the corner of her eye she saw a float bike shadowing them as well. Even here, surrounded by people who seemed to regard him as some sort of religious icon, Aral had a bodyguard. And she did too now, she supposed.

They left the village and followed the road up to the house as the sun set, turning the sky purple and orange in a way that made Cordelia's breath catch for the sheer beauty of it. But not even the glorious view could keep her attention from the man at her side now.

They came to the bridge over the stream that fed into the lake, and Cordelia saw that there were indeed other locks attached to it. She stopped and pulled the padlock Yanna had given her from her little bag.

"Apparently," she said, "this is a Barrayaran tradition."

Aral looked at it and grinned. "My God, yes." He paused. "It's a funny thing. Irina said it was a prole custom, so we never put a lock on the Star Bridge the way some people do."

"Well," Cordelia said, "not that I really understand Barrayaran class, but I think I probably am a prole." She paused as her conversation with the Count from this morning fell into place. "Your father was trying to figure it out this morning, actually."

Aral laughed. "You can be as prole as you like. I'm done with all that now." He handed the lock back to her, and she found a space on the ornate iron rail, and attached the lock, turning the simple mechanical key. Aral took the key and tossed it into the water below. "There," he said. "Tradition is satisfied."

If all Barrayaran traditions were this charmingly symbolic, Cordelia thought, she would come to enjoy them.

They walked the rest of the way up to the house with their arms around each other, not speaking much. Cordelia had found all the social requirements draining, and she suspected Aral had too. But at least they were over now, and it wasn't as if they were going to have to deal with any other strange Barrayaran social functions again for a good long time, she hoped.

The air was cooling as they reached the gates of the house, a refreshing breeze rising across the lake, laden with moisture. "It'll rain later on, I think," Aral said, looking at the clouds gathering along the distant brown horizon. "That'll keep the farmers happy."

"Really?" Cordelia said, staring at the clouds with sudden excitement. "Real rain?"

Aral looked at her face, then suddenly kissed her. "Yes, dear Captain, real rain."

"We'll have to stay up all night so that we can see it." It never rained on Beta, and Cordelia had only seen rain falling a handful of times on other planets. She recalled her month-long stay in the Institute of Astrocartography in Edinburgh on Earth, and how the locals had fallen over themselves laughing at the reaction of the six Betans there when they'd had three unbroken days of rain.

"As you wish," Aral said, laughing. "But perhaps we'll have to think of something to do whilst we wait..."

Cordelia kissed him again, and her attention gradually slipped away from the bank of clouds.

As they arrived at the house, they were greeted by what looked like the entire staff, lined up in two neat ranks outside the door. Ma Thornton came forwards. "Welcome home, my lady," she said to Cordelia, dropping a deeper curtsey than she had before. Cordelia smiled thanks. "And congratulations," she went on with a more familiar air to Aral, patting his arm in a way that reminded Cordelia that she'd known him his whole life.

He gave a cheerful smile to the row of servants, and led Cordelia up the steps to the house.

"So," Cordelia said, also smiling at the row of waiting servants, then turning back to Aral, "do we have sex now?"

Aral looked at the servants, made a small choking noise, then said, "Yes. Yes, we do."

They went straight upstairs then, to Aral's room.

"You don't want do leave this open, do you?" Cordelia asked suddenly as she moved to close the door, remembering another bedroom conversation.

Aral shook his head, smiling a little. "Not here. This is my house."

The atmosphere in the room changed as Cordelia closed the door, becoming more serious and anticipatory. Aral sat down on the edge of the bed, holding himself very straight. Cordelia studied him for a moment.

"Nervous?" she said, sitting down beside him.

Aral gave a short awkward nod.

"It'll be fun," she said. "You do want to, right now, don't you? It's all right if you don't," she added automatically.

Aral gave her a look of sudden dismay. "Of course I want to--how could you think--I do _like_ women too--"

She put a hand on his arm soothingly. "No, that's not--on Beta, you always check. Just in case." It had been ingrained in sex classes since before she'd hit puberty. She was beginning to realise that Aral hadn't had anything to guide him beyond his own basic decency.

"I haven't had sex since Vorrutyer tried to rape me," Cordelia said a few moments later, because that was something he needed to know, and Aral froze.

"Do you--dear Captain, if _you'd_ rather not... you'll tell me to stop if you don't like anything, won't you?"

"Of course I will," she said. "And yes. I do want to have sex with you."

That brought a smile to his lips, but he didn't relax. Instead, he stood up, took off his brown glittery jacket and tunic and placed them neatly, militarily, on the back of a chair. Cordelia let him fidget, then said, "What is it?" in a soft tone.

"You're Betan," he said finally, sitting beside her again. "You know all about this. But I... my first wife told me I was no good," he finished in a rush. "And, since then, I've only been with men. I don't... I'm not sure..."

"Men and women aren't that different," Cordelia said. "And you always have to learn it all again with a new partner, anyway. Everyone has their own preferences and quirks. If you're more comfortable with anal," she added as an afterthought, "we could start there if you prefer. I generally enjoy that." And she was pretty sure she'd enjoy anything so long as it was with Aral.

Aral stared at her for a moment, as if she'd just said something so shocking he wasn't able to process it, then said with obvious difficulty, "No, that won't work. I ... used to play the woman's part."

Cordelia gave him a baffled look. "You want to pretend to be a woman?" she tried. Good sex relied on good communication, but this was proving harder than she'd expected.

If she was baffled, Aral was lost for words. "No," he managed at last, "No. God. I mean, I was the one who--the one who was fucked."

'The woman's part,' she realised with some dismay, meant the one who was penetrated. "I don't have a dildo with me," she said, "but I'm sure we could think of something."

Aral broke into sudden startled laughter and tightened his arm around her. "Dear Captain," he whispered, "you're never at a loss, are you? Maybe later. I think--" his grip turned to a caress "--we should start with something simple."

"Simple is good," she said. She twisted around, trying to figure out where the dress was clasped. "I don't actually know how to get this off, and I don't want to damage it, but getting it off seems like a good place to start."

It took a good five minutes and quite a lot of laughter to get her out of the dress, by which time Aral's tension seemed to fade. He stood behind her and began to unpin the curls and flowers in her hair, his hands frequently diverting to stroke her neck and trace her skin down to the neckline of the thin slip she was still wearing.

She turned to unbutton his shirt and kiss his collarbone. "I've wanted to do this," she said, slipping the shirt from his shoulders and gazing at him, "since ... oh, about two days after I met you."

"I've wanted you to," he said, "since about five minutes after I first saw you."

The rest of their clothes came off quickly after that, and they retired to the bed. Aral ran a hand down her thigh, pausing to trace the red scar Vorrutyer had left, where she had no sensation. She shivered a little as his hand seemed to vanish from her perception, then reappear.

"What is it?" Aral said, stopping at once.

"I keep seeing him. In the corner of my eye." She sat up abruptly, to prove she could, and Aral moved back a little, giving her space. She reached out and took his hand, placing it back over the scar, and covered it with her own hand, leading him upwards, showing him how she liked to be touched. She drew him closer with her other hand, breathing in his scent, stroking the dark hair on his chest as her right hand moved his higher until his touch sent little anticipatory shivers down her back. Gradually, she moved her hand away and let him take the lead. He was intensely gentle, a strange combination, but she could feel his concentration, his deliberate determination to treat her well, and the bad memories slipped gradually away, replaced by much more pleasant sensations.

They changed places after a while and she knelt up and looked down at Aral, smiling at the view.

"What are you thinking, my Captain?" Aral asked, mirroring her smile.

"I was thinking that I should make a survey." Her grin widened. "A preliminary survey first, of course, overflying all the regions--" her hands traced up from his feet "--and noting major features along the way for further study at a later date--" she ran her fingers lightly over one particularly prominent feature, and Aral twitched and grinned back at her encouragingly "--and noting anything else of interest." Her hands swept upwards along his sides--God, where had he got that scar, it must have half-killed him?--feathering over his skin, and he suddenly gave a wriggle and a half-choked snort of laughter.

"You're ticklish!" Cordelia exclaimed in delight. Clearly this survey was producing some interesting results.

"I am not _ticklish_ ," he retorted breathlessly. "I'm just a little--a little sensitive right now."

Cordelia swept her hands back over his side, he laughed again, and she grinned back at him. "Not ticklish at all," she reported. "Evidently."

She continued her survey upwards. He was heavily muscled, and traced with fine scars, some still red and angry, others faint silvery lines against his olive skin, the history of a life of warfare written on his body. She slid her hands feather-light along his neck, and he suddenly went tense and still, the smile freezing on his lips. Cordelia moved back, lifting her hands. She saw him force himself to relax, and moved off him, sitting up beside him on the bed, sliding her hand under his. He gripped it hard.

She didn't ask him anything, but after a moment, he said, "He used to do that. Tease me with his power over me, his hands on my neck. God. I hadn't even thought about it in years." He paused, looked at her, then said, "Do that again."

"Aral--are you sure?"

"Yes." He pulled her back so that she was kneeling across him, took her hands in his, and set them at the base of his neck, over the hollow of his throat. Cordelia could feel the pulse beating in the side of his neck. She kept her gaze fixed on his eyes, searching him, and he watched her equally fixedly. She slid her hands up his neck gradually, and saw no moment of panic cross his face. He closed his eyes suddenly, murmured, "Continue your survey, dear Captain," and put his arms around her, pulling her flat on top of him. Cordelia kissed him then, hard and long, until she was as sure as she could be that he was out of the past and back with her. Then he lifted his head a little and said, "Very well, my scientist. I think it's my turn to do my own kind of survey."

He rolled them both over, neatly landing so that his weight didn't crush her too badly, and began his own survey with tongue and lips, kissing his way down much more thoroughly than she had done, until she was knotting her hands in the sheets and panting for breath. Aral pulled his head back, looking entirely too pleased with himself at the effect he was having, and Cordelia said, "Don't stop _now_ ," in a strangled voice. Dimly, she thought perhaps that was a little peremptory--her last lover had told her she was too pushy in bed, and she'd tried to fit in with what he wanted--but instead Aral's eyes lit.

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered, and his head lowered again. Cordelia's back arched, she pressed up against Aral's mouth and shuddered, sensation radiating out through her body and draining out, leaving her almost liquid on the bed. Aral rested his head on her, and she reached out languidly and stroked his face, murmuring, "Whoever said you weren't good at this was very, very wrong."

"It's different with you. Dearest Captain..."

She focused on him again, seeing his wide dark eyes and shiny-wet lips, and drew him closer, running her hands down his back and feeling the tension leashed there, the way he jolted as her hand reached down. He was holding himself back tightly, he'd been holding himself back for far too long, one way or another. Now it was time for him to let go. She turned them around, settling astride him and stroking him, hands sliding over sweat-damp skin and tangling in dark hair until his breathing was ragged.

Excitement blended into laughter as they tried to find the right angle and kept missing, fumbling like over-excited teenagers.

"I'll have you know," he said breathlessly, "that I'm very good at docking, when it comes to ships."

"The controls are a bit slippery right now," she agreed, and then it worked, and their laughter turned to indrawn breaths and a slowly building rhythm. Cordelia closed her eyes for a moment, letting other senses take over, then opened them again to watch Aral as his tempo increased. Then his head went back and he gasped, "Captain--I can't--" His hands bit into her back.

"It's all right," she breathed back. "Let go."

His rhythm faltered and his back arched beneath her, mouth opening in an unvoiced cry. Then slowly he sank down. There were tears on his face. Cordelia kissed his eyelids gently, then wrapped herself around him.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing her lightly, his hand finding hers. He opened his eyes again. "I'm afraid it wasn't ... as good as it should have been, for you."

"Don't worry," Cordelia said. "We've got all night. All week." She rested her head on Aral's shoulder.

"I suppose we have." He sounded surprised, as if he'd expected her to berate him for not managing to make their unfamiliar biologies synchronise perfectly by sheer force of will. "But I wanted... I wanted it to be perfect for you."

""I'm here to stay," she told him. "We can take our time. Besides, how many things in your life have been perfect on your first attempt?"

Aral gave a startled laugh at that, which broke into a sob, and Cordelia held him more tightly, kissing his face and tasting tears. They lay together, holding each other, for a while, and then there followed some prosaic and practical--and giggly--cleaning-up before they settled back on the bed together, Aral curling himself around her, stroking her back gently.

She didn't imagine that everything would be fixed now, everything would be easy, after this. She'd probably still have nightmares, Aral would still be haunted by his ghosts. You couldn't reverse trauma with a kiss, or even with really good sex. But facing it all together seemed suddenly much more possible than facing it alone.

She'd surveyed many planets, many new regions of space, but never anywhere she was planning to stay, planning to live, planning to make her home. She pressed her face to Aral's chest, inhaling deeply. Barrayar might be an alien place, but where Aral was, there was her home. And her future. She had no idea what it would be like here, no idea what turns her life would take next. It was like making a blind wormhole jump, a jump that could end anywhere, that could destroy them or make their fortunes or change the shape of their world. But she wasn't making it alone. Together, she thought, they could do anything.


End file.
